


What's in a name

by demon_sloth



Series: Inkwyrm Drabbles [2]
Category: Inkwyrm (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Robert puts his foot in it, but he gets it in the end, he does it a lot actually, people change and grow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 16:46:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11339409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demon_sloth/pseuds/demon_sloth
Summary: Chosen names are fought for and Robert puts his foot in it.





	What's in a name

“This suit is too tight.”

Kinley’s hands freeze where they’re pinning Robert’s collar into place and he shoots him a glare.

“I _knew_ he was going to say that!” Morris crows from the speaker system. “Pay up!”

“I'll pay you later,” Kinley says, slightly distracted, before turning his attention back to Robert. “Your suit is not _tight,_ ” he says shortly, the silver markings peaking out of his own collar and curling around his cheekbones and brow bone glow brighter as indignity rises. “It is perfectly tailored and I don’t appreciate you questioning my skills like this.”

“Sorry,” Robert says without sounding sorry at all.

“You know, I _could_ let you go to your conference _without_ a proper suit,” Kinley says shortly, jabbing a pin very close to Robert’s jugular. He continues, muttering under his breath, “-never in all my life-”

Robert would shrug if he didn't think he would actually get stabbed. By accident he's sure. “It's just going to be doctors among doctors. I don't think they care that much about clothes.” He glances over just in time to see Kinley’s lips thin and his expression shutter off into a blank expression as the marks around his eyes pulse brightly once before tarnishing to a metallic, gunmetal grey.

“There are certain people in this galaxy who would kill to be dressed by me,” Kinley says softly in reproach, his expression faintly wistful and clouded by hurt.

“That's true,” Morris chimes in quietly from the ceiling.

Robert feels guilt settle heavy in his stomach and he finds himself stumbling to make it right. “I just meant that half of them won't appreciate it and the _other_ half will be too drunk to care.”

Kinley stares him down for a moment - a mark of vulnerability in his gaze - and then the strange moment passes and he snorts and turns back to his work, marks brightening to a dull shine as the tired expression lifts somewhat.

Robert tries to be patient as Kinley fusses around his neck, but there are exactly two places he is patient and as this is neither the bar, nor the operating table, he figures he's restrained himself quite well so far.

Kinley would probably disagree.

“Sooo,” Robert drawls after a minute or two of awkward silence and ignoring Kinley’s sigh, “your marks. Do they react to thoughts or emotions? All my medical texts usually end up debating it.”

“What is this? My medical?” Kinley rolls his shoulders and pulls back, surveying his work and nodding to himself before turning and grabbing more pins. To Roberts growing horror he comes to the realisations his suit is going to be even tighter by the end of it. Revenge at it's finest. “The last time I checked,” Kinley continues, folding a dart into Robert's shirt and stabbing a pin through it with macabre efficiency, “we were in _my_ office, not yours.”

“Just curious. Figured I would ask an actual Angorian, not just go on the word of idiots who’ve never left their homeworld.”

Kinley doesn't answer for a moment or two, just stares him down and judges him. Robert is starting to think that he may have crossed a line. He's...a little concerned. Partly because he knows Kinley can make him suffer for hours yet, but also because he didn't mean to step on toes.

“Why one or the other?” Kinley finally asks, turning his unsettling gaze back to Robert’s shirt. “Can’t the two be related?”

“Do you always answer a question with another question?”

Kinley raises an eyebrow, “do you?”

“I could just ask M.O.R.I.S.”

There's a silence heavier than before as Kinley's marks pulse brightly once and the muscles in his jaw tighten, before Morris says quietly, “I wouldn't answer.”

Robert makes a noise of frustration at the both of them and scowls over Kinley’s shoulder, refusing to give them the satisfaction. He jumps when two bright yellow eyes blink lazily back at him and this time Kinley really does stab him with a pin.

“Jeez- _ow!_ ”

“Well if you didn’t _move_ ,” Kinley huffs in exasperation.

“What the hell is _that?_ ”

Kinley blinks and then looks over his shoulder at the fat, brown cat blending into the shadows on the shelf behind him, and who has gone back to napping. “Oh,” he says calmly. “Oxo.”

“Oxo?” Robert asks in confusion.

Kinley shrugs slightly. “Short for Oxo Cube.”

“Huh,” Robert stares at the cat, “strangely fitting.” And then, “I can’t believe Annie lets you have a cat.”

“Of course Annie lets me have a cat.” Kinley sounds a little offended at Robert’s audacity to imply that he _wouldn’t_ be allowed whatever he wants.

“ _How?_ I can barely get her to sign off on my stuff!”

“Because I’m her favourite, of course.”

“Tch,” Robert scoffs, “not anymore.”

Kinley chuckles. “With the level of denial Annie’s in right now? I think I'm safe.”

“Possibly. Want to bet on it?” Robert smirks at Kinley trying - and failing - to look uninterested. “A case of Angorian wine on Annie not confessing until after the summer collection comes out. Next year.”

Kinley finally stops adjusting Robert’s shirt and rocks back slightly on his heels. “The good stuff?”

“Finest vintage. Bottled in ‘82.”

Kinley looks at him for a few moments, weighing the odds. His marks shimmer as he debates. Robert cocks an eyebrow at him in challenge. “Go on then, I'll take it.”

Robert grins and turns his attention to the sensors in the ceiling. “M.O.R.I.S.? You want in?”

“His name is Morris.”

“Huh?”

“His-” Kinley makes a small noise of frustration. “It’s Morris, not M.O.R.I.S.”

“What's the difference?” Robert asks in bewilderment. They sound almost exactly the same.

“It's-” Kinley cuts himself off with a gesture. “It's the way you say it. Like it’s a designation, not a name.”

Robert opens his mouth and then closes it again. “Isn't a designation a name anyway?”

“Yes but-” The marks on Kinley’s cheeks stutter bright before starting to pulse in agitation, “but Morris is his _name_ not an acronym of what he was created for. This is one he _chose._ He's not just a machine.”

“People call me Doctor all the time,” Robert points out, perplexed.

“That's-” Kinley makes a louder noise of frustration, “that’s completely different! You still chose to become a doctor. It wasn't just handed to you at birth and you having to answer to it for the rest of your life! Nor is it a- a thought exercise or- or a _gentleman's_ _debate_ ,” he spits out. “Morris is here, and he has thoughts and feelings and just because he's not the kind of lifeform you’re used to dealing with on a day to day basis doesn't mean he’s not a valid one!”

Robert blinks at the level of upset this has caused. “Oh.” He says quietly, “I'm. I didn't think of it like that. I'm sorry, Morris.”

“It’s fine.” Morris says, sounding completely disinterested in the proceedings.

Robert wonders at how many times Morris has had to listen to people calling him by the wrong name and not being able to correct them without sounding like he was making a big deal out of an inflection of the same word. At how many people wouldn’t take him seriously because he’s the only one of his kind here and pushing just takes up too much energy. And Robert wonders how many times has Kinley been asked to bite his tongue because Morris had convinced himself it didn’t matter and wouldn’t see his own worth.

“No it’s not.” Robert says softly. “Sometimes I- I'll do better.”

There’s a long silence and Robert gets the suspicion that Morris is actually embarrassed over it, especially when Morris makes the sound of a clearing throat and mumbles out a “Thank you.” He looks over and Kinley is back to fussing over the lay of his shirt, but he looks as grateful as Morris sounds.

“You can take this off now,” Kinley says softly, “I think I have your adjustments complete.”

Robert tries not to take his clothes off too fast - only because of the pins. It has nothing to do with finally seeing the end in sight.

“I'll drop the outfit off at your rooms in a couple of days,” Kinley continues, helping Robert carefully out of the shirt and setting it on the bench behind him, straightening out the sleeves and double checking the pins.

“So…” Robert says slowly as he slips his own shirt back on, “Morris. You want to join the wager?”

Morris hums and then says “I'm sticking with Kinley”

Robert scoffs and slips his shoes back on and then shoving his hands in his pockets. “Alright. Two against one. Let's see who’s right.”

 

* * *

 

The room in silent after Robert leaves with a goodbye and a casual wave.

“He seemed apologetic about your name,” Kinley say quietly as he digs around for a bobbin and the exact thread match. “I think he’ll stick by it.”

“He said he would,” Morris replies - and if he sounds faintly nervous then Kinley certainly isn’t going to gossip about it with anyone else.

Kinley hums. If Robert, their resident ornery doctor, could change his mind then there was hope for the rest of them. “You know…” Kinley says thoughtfully, smoothing out the shirt on his workbench, “it's been awhile since I've managed to find a good bottle of Angorian wine…”

There’s a moment’s pause and then, “I'll lock them in a service cupboard for you.”

Kinley grins, marks glowing happily. “Thank you darling.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was influenced by a couple of personal conversations I've had with select people. I feel like I've been very ham-handed talking about it but I'm sure practise will breed elegance.


End file.
